


I'll Be Seeing You

by tinzelda



Series: Stories with Titles That Are Corny Songs I Secretly Like [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, M/M, Marvel Universe, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1668380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve looks for Bucky after the events in <i>Captain America: The Winter Soldier</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to Pharis, who, as always, polished my rough edges with kindness and brilliant instinct.

1.

The first time they caught up to Bucky was in Alexandria, Virginia.

Over a week had passed, but Steve didn’t think he’d have gone far yet. It was Sam’s idea to listen to police scanners. When they heard mention of a suspicious figure matching Bucky’s description, they were on the road in minutes.

Half a block from the address they’d heard on the scanner, there was still a police car double-parked in front of what looked like a fancy café. Sam drove by slowly. A uniformed officer was talking to a woman with an apron on. She was waving her hands around as she talked, clearly upset, but she didn’t look hurt.

“There’s no ambulance,” Steve pointed out.

Sam nodded but said, “Would have come and gone already. It’s been a while.”

“It’s probably not even him.”

Sam drove slowly, spiraling through the narrow streets away from the restaurant where the police car was parked. It was a pretty town, but it was surreal to be looking for Bucky in a place like this. With all the old brick buildings, Benjamin Franklin walking down the street would seem more likely.

They were stopped at a red light when Steve caught a glimpse of a figure in a dark jacket with the hood pulled up. He was moving away from them—walking briskly, but not running—so Steve couldn’t see his face, but he knew it was Bucky.

“There,” Steve said, pointing.

“Where?”

The figure turned a corner, taking him out of view.

“I don’t see him,” Sam said

“We’re going to lose him.” Steve was already reaching for his seatbelt buckle.

He ignored the honking horns and angry shouts as he dashed across the street, reaching the corner just in time to see Bucky turn again. Steve pushed himself, pumping his arms as he ran.

When he finally caught up to Bucky, he had to pull up short to avoid running into him. Bucky turned and stared at him. His mouth opened, but he closed it again without saying anything.

Steve took a step closer. “Bucky—”

The sound of his name made him frown, and Steve froze. Then Sam shouted behind him. Immediately, Bucky turned and ran, holding his right arm tight against his ribs. Steve remembered the sickening crack he’d heard on the helicarrier and added another few pounds to the weight on his conscience.

Steve went after him, hot on his heels for several blocks before he realized it was pointless. Bucky clearly wasn’t going to stop and listen without a fight, and Steve wouldn’t hurt him again.

Bucky sped off and disappeared.

Steve was grateful that when Sam found him, he didn’t say anything at first. They were halfway back to the car before he spoke.

“What now?”

Steve sighed. “Back to the drawing board.”

“The airport’s not far.”

Steve considered this. “If he wanted to fly out of here, he’d have already tried that. I think there’s too much security.”

“Good point.” Sam laughed, but it rang false. “Metal detectors would be a problem.”

2.

The next time they found Bucky was in a train station in Baltimore.

Steve was standing on the platform next to a train headed to New York, scanning the crowd. He saw Bucky slip out of the men’s room and make a beeline for the train, obviously timing it so he could board just before it started moving. When he saw Steve he didn’t stop, though he did walk more slowly.

Steve could see the gears turning, saw Bucky assessing the risks. He looked to the right and then the left, just his eyes moving—his head never turned. He was probably planning a dozen exit strategies. His steps slowed even more until he came to a stop about fifteen feet away. He looked at Steve, meeting his gaze fearlessly.

Steve spoke loudly to be heard over the crowd. “I just want to talk.”

Bucky suddenly spun in place, and only then did Steve see Sam approaching. He wasn’t close, but it was close enough. Bucky was off like a shot. Steve watched him go.

Sam joined Steve next to the train. “Damn.”

Steve didn’t answer. He was already striding away, already planning, guessing Bucky’s next move. Sam was right beside him as Steve made his way past the crowds. He paused for one look back, but of course Bucky was long gone.

Later, in the hotel restaurant, as Steve mechanically lifted his fork to his mouth, Sam finally said what they’d both been thinking.

“He’s never going to talk to you if I’m around.”

Steve looked up.

Sam lifted a hand, waving away Steve’s apology before he could even offer it. “I get it. He doesn’t know me, and hey—” He sat up straighter and pushed his chest out, his face pulling into a mock scowl. “Who wouldn’t see this as a threat?”

Steve forced a smile.

After downing the last of his beer, Sam wiped his mouth with his napkin, then tossed it on the table next to his plate.

“I thought you could help,” Steve said. “I thought maybe—”

But Sam interrupted him. “This is _way_ beyond my area of expertise.”

So when they left the restaurant, Sam drove Steve back to Penn Station. Sam went back to D.C., and Steve boarded a train for New York.

3.

Bucky’s hair was shorter the next time Steve caught up with him—much shorter than Steve had ever seen it. It was hard to imagine him strolling into a barber shop and letting someone wield scissors in his peripheral vision, but he couldn’t have done it himself so neatly. His skin looked pale and vulnerable under the dark line at the nape of his neck.

Bucky turned, saw Steve, then just stood stock still and stared. Steve stopped and pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets to make it clear he was unarmed. Bucky’s gaze darted around. He didn’t relax—not by a long shot—once he verified that Sam wasn’t there, but his stance shifted, and his eyes snapped back to Steve.

Steve started walking carefully toward him.

Bucky’s voice came out in a low growl. “Why are you following me?”

It sounded nothing like him, but Steve kept taking his slow and steady steps. “I want to help.”

Bucky sneered. “You think you can save me?”

Steve stopped. “I have to try.”

Bucky started to turn away.

“Bucky—”

“Stop!” Bucky’s expression was fierce. “Just stop.”

Steve didn’t follow when Bucky started running.

That night Steve couldn’t sleep, though he was exhausted. He missed Sam being there. Not that he really wanted company. He was relieved to be doing this alone. It wasn’t Sam’s responsibility, and Steve knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if Bucky hurt Sam, or the other way around. But there was something about having Sam follow him so loyally. He’d learned this during the war: when he felt like he had to step up and be a leader, had to think of his men, his mission—he couldn’t sit there feeling sorry for himself.

4.

Steve had already explored Brooklyn, months before, but the old neighborhood still felt foreign. The tenement where he’d shared a tiny cold water flat with Bucky was gone, but the building where he’d last lived with his mother was still standing. It looked like the interior had been gutted and completely rebuilt, but the outer walls were still the same old pitted bricks.

He wasn’t moving through the streets with any kind of plan, so he was startled when Bucky stepped out of a shadowed doorway right onto the sidewalk in front of him.

“Bucky.”

Steve lifted a hand before he even thought about it. Bucky took a step back, leaning away to avoid any possible contact. Steve cringed inwardly. How stupid could he be? But Bucky stood his ground.

It seemed like they stood there for a long time, just staring at each other. Bucky’s skin was pale in the afternoon sunshine, and his face looked too thin. Did his metabolism burn as hot as Steve’s? It hadn’t before, but who knew what else they’d done to him? Or maybe he just wasn’t getting enough to eat.

“This is probably a stupid question,” Steve said. He was careful to keep his tone light and even. “But can I buy you lunch?”

Bucky’s eyebrows hitched up, just a little.

“I was just about to get something to eat. There’s a diner over there on the corner.” Steve gestured across the street, but Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. “It doesn’t look like much, but dumps like that usually have the best food.”

Steve realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to take a gulp of air.

Slowly, his eyes still riveted to Steve’s, Bucky nodded. Steve moved around Bucky, giving him a wide berth, and led the way. He didn’t look over his shoulder, and he couldn’t hear any footsteps, but when he got to the glass door of the diner, Bucky was still there, just a couple of paces behind him. Steve held the door open, and Bucky hesitated. To avoid a standoff, Steve went inside first.

It was well past lunchtime, and the diner wasn’t crowded. There was a sign telling them to seat themselves, so Steve found a booth in the back. He hovered next to the table, not knowing where Bucky’d feel more comfortable. Would Bucky want to be able to see the room? Or would he not want his back to the kitchen door, which was just a few feet away? Bucky slid into the booth on the side by the kitchen. Steve sat down across from him and tried not to stare, but Bucky had the strangest expression on his face. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—though he must be feeling at least a little claustrophobic.

The only other time Steve had seen anything like that look on Bucky’s face was over a cheap, battered sketchbook on a hot summer night a long, long time ago.

Steve pushed the memory out of his head. He couldn’t afford to let himself get distracted. He had to figure out how to keep Bucky from bolting.

Their waitress was a short middle-aged woman. Her graying hair was pulled back in an untidy bun. She reminded Steve of his mother, tired after a long shift at the hospital. He resolved to tip well.

“What can I get you?”

Bucky didn’t say anything—just stared at the tabletop. So Steve ordered for both of them. He thought about protein and vitamins, wanting Bucky’s every mouthful to count, but in the end he decided on cheeseburgers and vanilla milkshakes. It was what Bucky had always ordered when they’d scraped up enough money to eat at the lunch counter on the corner. Not to mention Steve didn’t think he could stand to watch Bucky using a knife and fork.

Steve’s gaze was drawn to Bucky’s left arm, but there was nothing to see. He was wearing a sweatshirt—the fabric of its long sleeves was thick enough to hide the prosthetic—and his hand was on his lap, under the table.

The waitress brought their drinks quickly. After she’d plunked them down on the table, Bucky stared at his tall glass like it might be booby-trapped. After several long moments, he picked up the straw the waitress had left beside it. Steve only caught a glimpse of the glove he wore on his left hand as he ripped the paper wrapping and then jabbed the straw into the shake. He didn’t take a sip.

Steve cleared his throat. Bucky looked up at the noise and raised one eyebrow. He looked almost amused.

Keeping his voice low, Steve asked, “Is there anyone following you?”

Bucky gave him a pointed look.

“I mean other than me.”

Bucky scowled as if insulted at the thought that he could be so easily caught. Steve had thought he’d been doing a pretty good job but realized suddenly that Bucky must be _letting_ him catch up. It made Steve hopeful—he couldn’t care less about his own ineptitude at tracking when it meant that Bucky, on some level, wanted to see him.

“Will they come after you?”

The answer wasn’t even a shrug—just the barest movement of Bucky’s right shoulder.

“Where were you supposed to go once you’d—” Steve paused, not eager to remind Bucky of the specific parameters of his last mission. “Uh—finished.”

Bucky did not respond. Steve was determined not to lose his temper, but it was exasperating. He wanted to do something, _anything_ to help, but there Bucky sat, silent. Like a sulking teenager.

Finally, Bucky spoke: “There was a tracking device.”

“A tracking device? Who planted it? Did they contact you? Did you—”

Bucky shrugged again. This time a slight tilt of the head accompanied the tiny lift of his shoulder. “I took it out.”

Where had the tracking device been hidden? Had Bucky cut into his flesh? The idea made Steve’s stomach twist, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask anything more.

Bucky lifted his glass, finally drinking his milkshake. Mentally counting up calories, Steve wondered if he might be able to keep Bucky there long enough to eat a slice of pie. He also noted that Bucky was moving his right arm without any apparent discomfort now. He knew something about field dressings, and Steve had to assume that he was healing up fine.

The waitress brought their food, giving Steve a warm smile when he thanked her. Bucky began to eat immediately. He took big bites of his burger and chewed without seeming to taste anything.

Steve worked up the courage to ask the question he most wanted answered. It seemed almost rude to ask, but his mother never taught him how to be polite in a situation like this.

“Do you know who you are?”

Bucky froze, his hand halfway between his plate and his mouth. He put his sandwich down and looked up at Steve. He gave a quick nod. The movement was jerky, like it was hard for him to admit it.

Steve waited, but Bucky’s eyes skittered away again.

Steve turned his attention back to his lunch. He’d barely touched it. There was so much more he wanted to know, but for now, this was enough. He wasn’t going to ask any more questions, but then Bucky spoke of his own accord.

“I remember you.”

It came out like an accusation, but still, Steve’s heart leapt.

“You were a little guy,” Bucky continued.

Steve nodded.

Bucky frowned. “They changed you too.”

Steve wanted to argue with the implication that the serum was anything like what had been done to Bucky, but he pushed on before Steve could get a word in edgewise.

“You volunteered.”

It was a statement, but Steve could hear the question behind it. Thinking of it from Bucky’s perspective, maybe it had been a stupid thing to do. Steve had trusted the people around him blindly, never imagining that his own government, his own country, would willfully harm him, but they could easily have turned him into something like the Winter Soldier.

“I went to that museum,” Bucky said softly. “There were pictures of you. And me. But it’s like I saw it in a movie.”

It was the longest string of words to come out of Bucky’s mouth, and Steve wanted to encourage him, keep him talking. But he couldn’t seem to find words.

When Bucky spoke next, it was almost too quiet to hear. “I can’t trust any of it.”

Steve’s response was automatic. “You can trust me.”

Bucky let out a huff of air and rolled his eyes. For that split second, he truly looked like himself. Steve half expected some wisecrack, but then Bucky’s face settled back into an expressionless mask.

“You can,” Steve insisted. “I want to help you, Buck. Will you—”

“You can’t help me,” Bucky said. He wasn’t whispering anymore, and the few other patrons were turning to stare.

“Bucky—”

“No.”

Bucky shoved at the table between them with both hands. It hit Steve’s ribcage, pushing him back into the bench seat of the booth. Bucky glared at Steve and said, slowly and clearly, “You can’t help. You have to stop.”

Before Steve could say anything else, Bucky dashed to the kitchen door and was gone. Steve heard shouts and heaved the table away from his chest. He wouldn’t hurt Bucky, but he’d be damned if he’d let Bucky hurt anyone else.

By the time Steve threw the door open, Bucky was gone. The kitchen workers were muttering to themselves about the disruption, already cleaning up the mess. Steve apologized and let the door swing closed.

He looked at Bucky’s half-eaten cheeseburger and the puddles of milkshake that had slopped over when he’d pushed the table at Steve.

“You okay, hon?” The waitress had appeared at Steve’s elbow.

“Yes.” Steve reached out and pulled the table back into its proper position. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Bullshit.”

The obscenity from such a sweet, motherly little woman startled a laugh out of Steve. She grabbed his arm and yanked on it until he fell back into his seat.

“I know it’s none of my business, but I’m gonna put in my two cents anyway.” She slid into the booth across from him. She waited until Steve was looking at her. “My brother was on the streets for almost two years. Heroin.”

Steve opened his mouth to correct her, then realized he couldn’t. And it was close enough to the truth, wasn’t it? It was like an addiction—beyond Bucky’s control, something he would probably have to fight the rest of his days. Steve stared down at his fists where they rested on the table.

“He was a good man,” the waitress continued, “but he changed. He wasn’t himself when he was using.”

“Yes,” Steve said. “Yes, exactly.” He looked up at her. “How’s your brother doing now?”

She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Much better. He’s got a job now, goes to meetings.”

She reached across the table and squeezed Steve’s hand. He wanted to pull away. Her kindness made it all harder to bear somehow.

“There’s one thing you gotta remember,” she said, holding his hand very tightly. “You can’t help them until they’re ready to be helped.”

Steve nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

With a sigh, she stood up and smiled. “You look like you could use a nice, strong cup of coffee.”

_**Brooklyn, July 1939** _

_Steve jolts awake, thinking he’s dropping his sketchbook, but Bucky’s there, pulling it out of his hands._

_“You’re messing up your pages.”_

_“Oh.” Steve rubs one hand over his face. “Thanks. What time is it?”_

_“After six.” Bucky flips through the pages, pausing to look at each drawing. “Wow, you’re getting really good.”_

_“Not that good.”_

_“Yeah, you are.” Bucky holds up a still life: the clock that had been his grandmother’s, a few books, and glass vase. “Look at this. It could be in a museum.”_

_Steve feels his cheeks get warm. He’s been working hard lately, and he can see that he’s improving. Still, it’s good to hear Bucky say it. Steve takes more pleasure from it than he probably should, and it makes him stupid. Because it takes him far too long to realize he has to get that sketchbook away from Bucky. There are pages that Steve can’t let him see, countless pictures of Bucky. Every carefully shaded line seems to flaunt the bone-deep longing Steve works so hard to hide in every other way._

_“Bucky,” Steve says, reaching out for the book. “Come on, don’t look at the rest. They aren’t finished.”_

_“What do you mean? This looks great.” Bucky’s looking at a portrait of his own face. “You did this when I wasn’t even around?”_

_Steve shrugs. In spite of his worry, it’s all he can do not to squirm with embarrassment at the praise. “I have a pretty good memory.”_

_“I’ll say.”_

_Bucky turns several more pages._

_“Buck, come on.”_

_Steve tries to pull the sketchbook away, but Bucky won’t let go. He’s quiet now, and Steve’s getting more anxious._

_“Bucky.”_

_Bucky doesn’t look up. He’s not turning pages anymore. Just staring at a sketch Steve did—quick and guilty—while Bucky was sleeping._

_“I’m sorry, Bucky.”_

_Bucky’s head snaps up, so fast it makes Steve jump. Bucky’s no bully, Steve reminds himself. Even if he’s disgusted by what he sees in those pages he won’t do anything to hurt him._

_“What are you sorry for?”_

_Bucky doesn’t sound angry, but Steve’s frozen and can’t answer._

_Bucky closes the sketchbook and holds it carefully in both hands. He stands up, right in front of Steve. Then he leans down and presses a light kiss to Steve’s lips._

_Steve stares up at Bucky, and all he can think is how perfect Bucky is, how very brave. He knows he’s crossed a line and he’s trapped, but he isn’t going to back down. And Steve’s never backed down in his life. So while Bucky is still hesitating, Steve pushes up and kisses him, grabbing his head with both hands._

5.

Steve caught a few more glimpses of Bucky in New York. Twice more in Brooklyn. Once in Manhattan. Bucky ran as soon as he saw him. Steve thought of the waitress and her brother and didn’t give chase.

Then a week went by without any sightings, and Steve started to get anxious. He was out of ideas. He’d been so sure they’d end up here. If Bucky had left New York, Steve had no guesses about where he might have gone.

It was almost eleven when Steve got back to his hotel, his stomach complaining about a too-late dinner and too much caffeine. His jacket made a clunking sound when he tossed it onto the dresser, and he remembered his phone. He hadn’t charged it in days, maybe a week. It took a few minutes of digging through his bag to find the cord, but the minute he plugged it in, the phone pinged to tell him he had messages. There were several from Sam, and then: _It’s Tony. Call me back._

That was unexpected.

Three more similar brief messages followed, and then a longer one: _Okay, I know they had telephones back in the good ole days, so this isn’t a foreign concept for you. Check your damn messages. I sent you some stuff. Thought it might be useful. I attached it to e-mail. You know how to get it, right?_ There was a pause—he was so easily distracted—and then Stark’s voice again. _Later._

Why on earth was Stark bugging him?

When Steve opened the attachment, he felt a little bad for getting irritated. Stark had gathered a huge amount of information: mission reports, photos of Steve in basic, in the lab, and in London—had Stark gotten these from his dad? Pictures of Steve and Bucky in uniform. The Commandos. Peggy. Bucky laughing, his hand on Steve’s shoulder. It was all Steve could do to keep paging through.

It shouldn’t be too hard to get this stuff printed out. It had to help. All those pictures—something was bound to jog Bucky’s memory.

Steve listened to Tony’s message again, and the pause before he said _Later_ sounded less like distraction and more like there was something more he wanted to say. Was there something else? Something he wouldn’t leave in a message? What was Stark hiding? Steve pushed his suspicion aside. Tony had no obligation to help, and Steve figured he should be grateful without casting doubts on his motives.

6.

It was very early on a Sunday morning, and the subway station was deserted. Steve had been carrying the envelope with the papers in it for several days, so he was ready when Bucky materialized out of the shadows and stood staring at him from the other end of the platform.

Steve sat on a bench and set his backpack down next to him. Then, moving even more slowly, he unzipped it, reached in, and pulled out the envelope. He held it up so that Bucky could see what it was—no tricks, no weapons. Then he set it on the bench next to him, pulled the strap back over his shoulder, and walked away with deliberate steps. As he reached the stairs up to the street, he turned back to look. There was no sign of Bucky, but the envelope was gone.

As Steve climbed the steps, he tried not to imagine Bucky reading the papers and seeing the pictures. He couldn’t expect it to make a miraculous difference, but if there was even a fraction of what had Steve felt as he’d pored over those pages, it must have some effect. It would be worth it if it brought Bucky even one inch closer. And the way Bucky had just appeared like that. Clearly he was still watching Steve, not just running.

Steve was startled by his phone vibrating in his pocket. He’d been more careful to keep it charged since he got the messages from Stark.

“Hello?”

“Steve?”

It was a woman’s voice. He couldn’t place it.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Just listen. We’ve broken into some of their files.” It wasn’t Natasha. Who on earth would be calling him? “He’s done it before.”

Steve realized he was so busy trying to figure out who was calling that he wasn’t listening to her words. “Done what?”

“Listen, Steve! Our wayward friend—he wasn’t always the perfect little soldier. Back in the seventies, he ducked out on a mission, never completed it. He turned up in New York almost a month later. So it’s not the first time he’s gotten free of it. Maybe he can do it.”

“Wait, what—?”

But she was gone.

Steve looked at the screen. There was no name coming up, so the number wasn’t stored in his phone. Who would be able to get into Hydra’s files?

Natasha was probably in touch with Fury, and if anyone would know what was going on, he would. But Steve was sure it wasn’t Natasha. He was positive he would recognize her voice, even if she tried to disguise it, and there was no reason for her to hide from him.

It hardly mattered, not if what she said was true. Bucky had fought off his conditioning before, and without Steve’s help. Maybe they could find out more—learn what had triggered him to run? And he’d gone to New York. He’d gone looking for familiar places. Home.

Hope was blooming in Steve’s chest, though he tried not to get carried away, but it bothered him not to know who’d called. If Fury was behind the information, did he know that she’d contacted Steve? Why didn’t he just call himself? Maybe whoever it was had called without Fury’s knowledge. Suddenly, it occurred to Steve: it must have been Agent Hill. He had no idea where she was, but the secrecy and the whispering made it clear that she’d taken a risk by contacting him, and Steve was grateful—touched even.

He was about to slide his phone back into his pocket when it occurred to him to say thank you. But if she needed to keep it a secret, calling or sending a text just to thank her would be stupid. He’d never thanked Tony either.

He listened to Tony’s messages again, and now the pause in his last message didn’t sound distracted or secretive. Maybe it was just Steve’s gratitude for Hill’s phone call and the resulting optimism that he couldn’t quite keep a lid on, but this time Tony’s pause just seemed like a blank space for things he didn’t want to say out loud, like _I hope this helps_ and _Be careful._

He found Tony’s e-mail and typed a brief thank you, apologizing for being out of contact. A response came immediately: _Any time. Glad to hear you haven’t fallen off the face of the earth. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know. Bruce had some ideas about meditation, but I’ll spare you._

7.

Steve was pulling his bag out of the back of the SUV outside a motel near Boston when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned just in time for Bucky to crash into him. Bucky’s hands fisted in Steve’s jacket. He slammed him up against the back of the car and pressed up close, scowling at him.

For one wild moment, Steve thought Bucky was going to kiss him.

“Why did you give me those papers?” Bucky hissed.

“I wanted you to read them.”

Bucky let go of his shirt with a shove and took a step back.

Steve tried again. “Did you read them? It might help you remember.”

But Bucky turned and ran. Steve took a second to catch his breath before grabbing his bag and heading inside. He’d let himself get his hopes up, even more than he realized.

What on earth did he think was going to happen? Did he really think they could go back to the way they were? Bucky didn’t remember lazy summer nights in their cramped apartment: Bucky grinning—halfway pleased, more than halfway embarrassed—while Steve sketched the strong column of his neck, the knot of muscle on his calf. It shouldn’t matter that Steve was the only one to remember the few private moments they’d stolen during the war. It shouldn’t matter, but somehow it did.

_**London, March 1944** _

_“You want to stay for another?”_

_“Nah, let’s call it a night.”_

_“I’ll tell you, pal, you sure know how to make the most of a day’s leave.”_

_“I’m sorry. You said you didn’t mind.”_

_“Hey, there’s nothing I like better than sightseeing in a bombed out, godforsaken city where every girl around can’t take her eyes off my best friend.”_

_“Well, thanks for coming with me. Peggy doesn’t want to see this stuff. She lives here.”_

_Bucky looks down at his beer, lifts the glass, and drains the last few gulps._

_Steve could kick himself—it’s like he’s saying he only asked Bucky to come because Peggy wasn’t interested. The truth is, Steve’s been waiting for a chance to be with Bucky when they weren’t preparing before a mission or exhausted after one. He’s all too aware of the fact that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since Bucky recovered._

_Bucky leads the way out of the pub, and they walk through the quiet, damp streets back to the boarding house where they rented a room._

_“Peggy’s a hell of a dame,” Bucky says. “You gonna marry her? After the war?”_

_Steve hesitates. This is the last thing he wants to talk about with Bucky. “That seems like a long way off.”_

_“Yeah, but she’s your girl?”_

_“I’m not so sure. . . . I don’t think she’s the settling down kind.”_

_Bucky gets quiet then._

_Their landlady opens the door for them and offers tea. She’s nice as can be, but Steve feels impatient. He can’t make small talk. He leaves it up to Bucky’s charm to get them away quickly, and the old lady smiles at them as they clatter up the wooden steps._

_Bucky’s through the door first, and Steve closes it behind them. He wonders if locking it would be too obvious. He’s still standing there with one hand on the doorknob, unable to make up his mind, when Bucky pushes up close behind him and reaches around to turn the key with a loud click. He spins Steve around and pushes him back against the door, already tugging at Steve’s tie as he kisses him._

_Steve doesn’t need any more encouragement. He wraps his arms around Bucky and pushes his tongue deep into his mouth. Bucky lets out a groan and ruts up against Steve’s hip, then tilts his head to press a line of wet, sliding kisses down Steve’s neck._

_“I didn’t think you wanted to anymore,” Steve gasps._

_Bucky laughs. “Oh, I want to.” He pulls away just far enough to finish with Steve’s tie, then starts on the buttons of his jacket and shirt._

_“But wait,” Steve says, still breathless. “Why didn’t you say anything?”_

_“Why didn’t you?”_

_“I wanted to.” Steve bends his head. “It’s just that I’m . . . a little different.” It sounds stupid when he says it out loud._

_“A little?” Bucky smiles at him, shaking his head. He goes for Steve’s belt, tosses it on the floor, then tugs on Steve’s arm, dragging him to one of the narrow beds._

_Steve lets Bucky push him down onto the mattress, but he can’t keep quiet. “So you don’t mind that I—”_

_Bucky cuts him off. “Are you kidding? Look at you.”_

_Bucky’s only teasing—Steve knows that. But it’s been so long since they’ve been alone. And so long since this started, but they never talk about any of it. Steve closes his eyes and tries to lose himself in the feel of Bucky’s hands on his skin, fumbling with the buttons at his fly. But Bucky knows him too well._

_“Hey.”_

_Steve opens his eyes, and Bucky’s hovering over him, looking down at him—really looking._

_“Oh my God, you’re even stupider than I thought,” Bucky says. He kisses Steve, soft and lingering, then whispers, “Underneath all that, you’re still the same old stupid, stubborn bastard you’ve always been, and I—”_

_Bucky kisses Steve instead of finishing his sentence, but Steve doesn’t need to hear anything else._

8.

It had been five days since he last saw Bucky. Before, he’d been pleased to learn that Bucky was letting himself be found, but now, he hated knowing without a doubt that Bucky simply didn’t want to see him.

Bucky probably wasn’t even in Boston anymore, but Steve didn’t know where to try next. He looked at maps online, frustrated at trying to imagine a route with only the tiny screen of his phone to look at.

He pushed himself to eat a little of his turkey sandwich, but after a few bites he threw it down on the paper wrapping on the dashboard. The lettuce and tomato were tasteless, and he’d been eating so slowly that the bread was getting soggy. He was gathering the remains of his dismal lunch when the passenger side door opened and Bucky slipped into the seat.

“Drive,” he said. “Just get us out of the city.”

His voice was quiet and intense, and Steve didn’t want to think what had happened to make him sound like that.

Shoving his trash aside, Steve turned the key and backed out of the parking space. It took effort to focus on the road.

Though he wasn’t sure exactly where they were, Steve thought that driving north would get them out of the city quickest. Even in the middle of the day, Boston traffic was no fun, so the going was slow. It took well over an hour until they were really past the suburbs, and Bucky slumped lower in his seat.

When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was gruff. “I didn’t do anything bad.”

“I didn’t think you had,” Steve answered promptly. When he dared a glance, Bucky was frowning. He probably saw right through Steve’s lie but didn’t call him on it.

Silence fell again. Steve should feel better—wasn’t it better to have Bucky right there, with him? He had come to Steve on his own. That had to mean something.

Steve could see a bunch of big green highway signs ahead, and it made a handy excuse. He gestured at the signs and said, “Where are we going?”

Bucky didn’t answer. But he did start paying attention, looking out the window and reading the signs. While it was clear that he didn’t have a plan, he didn’t seem willing to leave things completely to chance either.

Bucky pointed at a sign. “Take this one.”

No other cars were leaving the main highway, but Steve figured that was why Bucky picked this particular place to turn off. They ended up on a smaller, local road. Steve decided to wait it out—he wouldn’t ask any more questions.

They drove into a town by the water. Steve would have expected a working waterfront with fishing boats, but it looked more like little vacation houses. Probably rich people from Boston came here on the weekends.

“There,” Bucky said suddenly, startling Steve. “Stop over there.”

Steve looked where Bucky was pointing. A weather-beaten wooden sign read _Cottages for Rent: Weekly or Nightly._ A smaller sign dangled from hooks below, swinging in the strong wind off the water: _Vacancy._

“It’s November. You think they’re still open?”

Bucky gave one of his noncommittal shrugs.

The instant Steve turned off the engine, Bucky was out of the car. He walked toward the water and just stood there, staring, his hands jammed into the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt.

Steve approached, careful to stop a full arm’s length away. “Should I get us a place to stay?”

Bucky gave a quick nod without even glancing in Steve’s direction.

There were about a dozen little houses, each one a different color. The one closest to the road had a small sign on the door: _Office._ Steve knocked and heard a muffled “Come in.”

He pushed the door open and stepped into stifling heat. An old man was pushing himself out of an armchair and tottering across the room. He held out his hand, and Steve shook it.

“Come on in,” the man said. His face was sunken and wrinkled, and the top of his head didn’t even reach Steve’s shoulder. And he was skinny—he must have the heat so high because he was cold all the time.

“Are you here for a rental?”

“Yes, sir. I was afraid maybe you’d already closed up for the winter.”

“Oh, no. I always hold out hope for a few latecomers like yourself.”

The old man shuffled to a desk by the front window. Steve peered out, hoping to see Bucky, as if he might disappear if Steve didn’t keep an eye on him.

“I’ve got number three still open. That’s the brown one right over there. And number seven. You might rather have that one. It’s closest to the sound.”

“That sounds great. I’ll take seven.”

“You want it through the weekend?”

It would seem odd to take the cottage just for one night, and a Thursday at that. “Yes, thank you.”

“Off-season weekly rate is only seventy dollars more, if you think there’s any chance you might stay.”

It was stupidly optimistic. Bucky would never stay for that long. Steve himself probably would get restless in a week, but he found himself nodding and smiling.

The old man took Steve’s credit card, and as Steve watched him punching keys on what even Steve recognized as a very outdated computer, he had a sudden realization that this man, ancient and shriveled though he seemed, had probably been born after Steve. Without the serum, if he’d managed to survive so long, Steve would look like this, only more wrinkled—and Steve didn’t think he’d even been as tall.

The man handled back Steve’s card and a key on a pewter keychain in the shape of a seashell.

“You can pull your car over right next to the cottage, and there are clean towels in the cabinet in the bathroom.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, pocketing the key. “Is there anywhere to get something to eat around here?”

“Most places are only open on weekends, this time of year. But there’s a little sandwich shop in town, and a market just up the road if you don’t mind cooking. About a mile back the way you came in, then turn left. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky had gotten back into the car. Steve got in beside him and drove to number seven. Bucky followed Steve inside without a word.

There was a tiny living room with a kitchenette along one wall. A door led into the bedroom, which had two double beds, like a motel, with a tiny table between them. After all the flowery, synthetic bedspreads Steve had seen over the past several months, it was a nice change to see two faded quilts that didn’t quite match. It was homey—a little shabby but clean.

Bucky was still standing by the front door when Steve turned back from the bedroom.

“It looks okay,” Steve said, just to fill the quiet. “The guy said the water is really close.” He went to the window and pulled open the curtains. It was getting late, but even with the darkening sky, the view was nice: tall drying grasses, rocks, and choppy water.

There was no answer from Bucky, and Steve reminded himself to be patient.

“You hungry?”

A mute nod was the only response.

“Okay, how about I go get some groceries while you clean up? There’s supposed to be towels in the bathroom.”

Bucky nodded again and skulked into the bedroom.

Could Bucky even take a shower? Would his arm rust? Steve pictured the Tin Man creaking out, _Oil can_. It was a ridiculous thought. But instead of wanting to laugh, he felt a little sick.

Steve grabbed his bag from the car and brought it inside. He pulled out a pair of sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, and a warm pair of socks and laid them out on the bed for Bucky.

Back in the car, Steve hesitated. He watched the cottage for a few minutes, half expecting to see a dark-haired form slink out of the back door and disappear into the dusk, even though he’d heard the water already running in the bathroom as he left. He couldn’t babysit. That would make Bucky bolt faster than anything else. Besides, why would he ride all the way out here, just to run way? He couldn’t walk around in this ghost town without being noticed, and he wouldn’t get very far walking on the highways. He would have been better off catching a bus or a train out of Boston. And Bucky knew how to hotwire a car. No, he must want to be here, with Steve, even if he didn’t show it.

The grocery store was small but well stocked. Steve found ingredients for some of Bucky’s favorites: chicken legs to fry up like his mom used to, eggs and bacon, and a couple of thick steaks. He got healthy stuff too: milk, vegetables, and fruit. The grapes looked a little past their prime, but Steve bought some anyway because Bucky’d always liked them.

Then Steve stuck some indulgent things in the cart, like chocolate bars and popcorn, which made him go back for butter. The idea of sitting and watching television and snacking on popcorn with Bucky seemed a little far-fetched, but what the heck. Steve liked watching movies—they let him truly relax for a little while. He was pretty sure the cottage must have a television, though he hadn’t really looked for it.

As Steve was putting his bags into the back of the SUV, his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“You found him.”

“Natasha?” Steve looked around—it wouldn’t have shocked him to see Natasha striding through the empty parking lot straight toward him. “You’re spying on me?”

“Fury’s got people watching your cards. I know you didn’t suddenly decide to take a little seaside vacation.”

“So is someone coming after us now?”

“No. Not if you don’t want me to.” There was no hesitation in her voice, and Steve believed her. “I’m . . . concerned, Steve. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Steve sighed. “You’re telling me.”

After a pause, Natasha said, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You call me if you need me.”

“Yeah, okay.”

This time the line was quiet for so long that Steve thought she’d hung up.

“Natasha?”

“Yeah?”

“Where are you, anyway?”

“I could tell you,” she answered slyly, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Keep in touch. That’s an order, Rogers.”

Steve made a lot of noise opening the door and bringing in the groceries. Startling Bucky probably wasn’t a good idea.

As Steve was putting the food away in the refrigerator, Bucky emerged from the bedroom. He was wearing the clothes that Steve had set out for him, and he looked better—less tense and pale. There was a dark ring around the neck of the t-shirt from his dripping hair. It was getting shaggy again so that it hung over his eyes. He must have used Steve’s razor. Clean-shaven, he looked impossibly young.

Bucky looked over the groceries Steve had piled by the sink and pulled out the plastic bag full of grapes. He lifted himself gracefully onto the tiny bit of space that was left on the counter and sat there, eating grapes one by one.

“You should probably wash those,” Steve said. “They use a lot more insecticides than they used to.”

“You think unwashed fruit is the thing that’s gonna do me in?”

Steve looked over his shoulder in time to see Bucky pop another grape into his mouth. Then he shot Steve a tiny, crooked, perfect grin.

Steve grabbed the carton of eggs and turned back to the fridge. It was the look on Bucky’s face—the humor, the cocky sarcasm. It got to Steve, but he couldn’t let it make him stupid.

Though Bucky was mostly silent throughout dinner, Steve at least had the satisfaction of seeing him eat with real enthusiasm. Steve even managed not to stare as Bucky sawed at his steak with one of the dull knives Steve had found in the kitchen drawer.

Bucky went to the window when he’d finished. After Steve washed the dishes, he joined him, daring to stand just a little closer than last time. It hadn’t been a very cold day, but the dark sky and the wind coming off the water made it look like winter.

“Remember that summer Charlie Ball’s parents took him to the seashore? I begged Ma the rest of that summer, hoping she’d take us.” Steve’s voice sounded loud in the quiet room. “By the next summer I realized she’d never be able to afford it and stopped asking.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Not that Steve had really expected him to.

Restless, Steve walked over to a armchair, but instead of sitting changed directions, going to the kitchen to get himself a drink of water. As he turned off the faucet, he heard Bucky mumble, “I always thought you’d breathe better somewhere like this.”

It was said so quietly, Steve wasn’t even sure Bucky had meant for him to hear it. Again, Steve had to pause before he turned around. He had to get a grip on himself.

There was a television—a surprisingly modern one compared to the furniture in the place—but Steve doubted Bucky would be interested. He was still by the window, hip propped against the low bookshelf along the wall.

Steve stifled a yawn, though it wasn’t all that late. Bucky looked over at the noise. Steve tried for a smile and said, “I guess I’ll turn in.”

Bucky turned back to the window.

Steve took a long, hot shower, telling himself all the while to take his time. Bucky could leave any time he wanted. He didn’t have to wait until Steve was out of the room.

When Steve came out of the bathroom, the cottage was dark. The only light was the lamp Steve had turned on, on the little nightstand between the beds. Bucky was lying on the bed on the far side of the room. Though he doubted that Bucky was asleep, Steve was quiet as pulled on pajama pants and dug out a clean pair of socks. As he straightened to put on his t-shirt, he noticed that Bucky was indeed awake and was watching him intently. Steve yanked the shirt over his head, embarrassment making him clumsy. He set his bag on the dresser, grabbed his phone, and got into bed.

There were several voicemails from Sam, but Steve didn’t listen to them. Instead, he sent a text: _Found him. Not running yet. What the hell do I do now?_

It only took a moment for Sam to reply: _I always try to listen more than I talk. Call me any time._

Steve glanced over at Bucky, but his eyes were closed. Steve turned out the light.

*****

A noise woke Steve in the middle of the night, and he sat up in bed, immediately wide awake. Then he thought of Bucky and froze.

Bucky’s voice came out of the darkness. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I didn’t—” Steve figured honesty was always best. “I was afraid you were leaving.” He fell back against his pillow. “You should get some rest.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

“You definitely won’t sleep if you’re pacing all night.”

There was movement by the window. Steve saw a flash of moonlight as Bucky parted the curtains and looked out. After Bucky tucked the curtains back into place, Steve heard him sigh, then felt his weight settle on the end of the bed.

“You okay?” Steve whispered.

“That’s a really stupid question.”

Steve laughed before he could stop himself. Bucky made a noise. It wasn’t really laughter, but it was honest and uncontrolled and more than Steve would have looked for so soon.

“Give me a break. I’m still half asleep.”

Bucky was silent.

“Bucky?”

Steve reached out, but before his hand found the lamp, Bucky spoke again.

“Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.”

The mattress dipped as Bucky jumped up off the bed. “You shouldn’t.”

Steve wanted to contradict him, but as he was lining up arguments in his mind, Bucky climbed into the bed right next to Steve, lifting the covers and pressing up close, warm against Steve’s back. Steve was too surprised to do anything, but maybe that was best. If he did what he wanted to—rolled over and wrapped himself around Bucky . . . he probably wouldn’t respond well to that.

“I don’t know what to do.” Bucky’s words came out in a whisper.

“I don’t either.”

“I can’t trust anything—my memories. What’s real? And what did they plant in there to keep me in line? I can’t trust any of it. I read those papers—the papers you gave me. It just doesn’t seem _real_.”

Steve felt a little overwhelmed: so many words and such urgency after all that silence.

“And sometimes I know things but can’t remember how I know them. I don’t know what to believe. And what if they come after me?”

This, at least, Steve knew how to address. “We’ll fight,” he said decidedly. “You and me, just like always.”

“They won’t let me go easy.”

“We’ll get help.”

“There’s no more SHIELD. They can’t help you.”

“There’ll be something else, then. People will come together somehow. We’re not alone.”

Steve was surprised by his own words. He’d spent so much time feeling alone that he hadn’t noticed that he’d come to trust a select few. He knew he could rely on Sam, of course, and Natasha. But then there were Tony’s e-mails, Hill’s illicit phone call, and even Fury’s surveillance—they added up to people he could truly call friends. Interfering and suspicious, maybe, but acting out of genuine concern for Steve, and he would make sure that concern extended to Bucky.

Steve rolled over so that he was facing Bucky. He wanted light but knew Bucky probably needed the darkness. Bucky was lying on his back. Steve was close enough that Bucky’s shoulder was pressing into his chest. His body was rigid, and Steve was sure he would move away. But he stayed, and the tension slowly faded. That was good enough for now.

“Do you think you could sleep? I’ll stay awake, if that would help.”

“Nah.”

Steve didn’t know if that meant _Nah, I wouldn’t sleep anyway_ or _Nah, I’ll be able to sleep without you keeping watch_. He reminded himself not to push and said nothing.

Bucky nudged Steve gently with his elbow. “Even in the dark, I can feel you staring at me.”

His voice, his tone—it was all Bucky, and in spite of his best efforts, Steve felt broken by it.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I’ll stop.” He bent his head, but that was worse, getting his face close enough to smell the soap on Bucky’s skin.

Bucky whispered, “What if I can’t shake it?”

“You’re stronger than that. I know it.”

Steve told Bucky about Hill’s phone call, and Bucky was quiet for a long time, as if digesting the news.

“I haven’t done anything bad,” Bucky said. “Not since the helicarrier. I mean, I stole some clothes, picked a few pockets so I could buy food, but I haven’t hurt anyone. I swear.”

“That’s good, Buck.” Steve lifted his hand, but stopped himself before touching Bucky. “You see? You’re already doing it.” Steve hoped he didn’t sound patronizing, but simple reassurance seemed to be what Bucky needed—he sounded like a kid caught eyeing the cookie jar. “So what happened this afternoon?”

Bucky hesitated.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“I went into the deli after you left. I try to eat when you eat, or else I forget.”

It made sense that he’d be conditioned to ignore his body’s basic needs. The thought made Steve angry, but he pushed it aside.

“There was a kid there with her mother,” Bucky continued. “The way she looked at me—this tiny little girl—it was like she could see right through me, what a monster I am, and I—”

“You’re not a monster,” Steve insisted. “She’s probably just scared of strangers.”

“Steve—”

“No, listen. I know you’ve done bad things, but they made you do them. I can’t even imagine what it’s like, but any guilt or shame you’re feeling? A monster wouldn’t feel remorse.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Maybe Steve had said too much. He’d ignored Sam’s advice—not only was he not listening, he’d talked right over Bucky. No wonder he’d clammed up.

“Bucky?”

“What if I can’t get it all back? All the memories?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But that’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it? To get your friend back?”

Steve didn’t like the way Bucky said it, as if he were another person entirely.

“Of course, I want that. But I know it might not happen.” It was the first time Steve had let himself think about it, the first time he admitted that Bucky might not come back to him completely. He couldn’t resist then—he reached out and rested his hand on Bucky’s chest. “It won’t matter. Underneath it all, you’re still the same James Buchanan Barnes I’ve known since I was a kid. You can still be a good man. And my friend.”

Bucky didn’t answer, but Steve could hear him breathing, quick and ragged. He slid his hand down and let his arm rest across Bucky’s belly, careful not to let his fingertips brush metal.

Bucky’s body was still so familiar. The solidity of it under Steve’s hand. Bucky’s right hand moved to grip Steve’s wrist, but he didn’t pull Steve’s arm away. Even that simple touch made Steve desperate. He wanted to reacquaint himself with every inch of Bucky’s skin. The temptation was made that much worse by the certainty that Bucky would let him do it.

“Your skin’s so warm,” Bucky said. “I remember—”

Steve waited, breathless, but Bucky didn’t say anything else.

It took a long time for Bucky to finally fall asleep, and only then did Steve stretch out his hand to touch Bucky’s left arm. Bucky murmured in his sleep, and Steve froze, but Bucky only shifted closer, then fell quiet. Steve drifted off with his fingers curled around warm metal.

*****

When Steve woke, he was alone. He wasn’t surprised. Not really. And he didn’t need to get out of bed to know that Bucky wasn’t anywhere else in the tiny cottage. He had left Steve’s clothes folded in a tidy pile on the dresser. When Steve ventured out into the kitchen to make himself some breakfast, he found a frying pan and spatula in the sink and four empty spaces in the egg carton. So at least Bucky hadn’t bolted like a scared animal, or snuck out like a fugitive.

As Steve’s own eggs were sizzling on the little stove, he wandered over to the window to look out. The water was calmer today, and it looked like the sun was burning off the clouds from yesterday. Steve was willing to bet the light would be great for drawing.

Maybe it was crazy, but Steve kind of liked the idea of sticking around for a few days. He’d already paid for a week—not that he’d stay that long—and the refrigerator was full of food. He could take his sketchbook out on the beach, or maybe find a decent novel in the shelf of battered paperbacks there in the living room.

He had a feeling Bucky hadn’t gone far. And Steve could be patient.

The End


End file.
